By Request (@inventrix), sort of: Hatching

June 7, 2011

Well, I wrote 250 words and didn’t get to the dragons, so I’ll try to write another 250 tonight to actually GET to the babies. But here’s more of the world of “Damn Dragons, get off my lawn!

My husband came home early from work on Wednesday, and I have never been so glad for his presence, or his Presence. Our younger two had off from school, and what with what was going on next door, they were alternating between whining and throwing tantrums.

And next door… “What is that horrible noise?” he asked, wincing as the riotous cacophony reverberated over several spectrums of audible and other-sense.

I was already stuck in a permanent wince. Our youngest is, it seems, shaping up to be a mimic. Not the time I wanted to find out. “The Smiths’ baby is hatching.”

“Hatching?” He got a look in his eye, that one I could never say no to, no matter how much I wanted to. My darling would never lean on me, not like that, I’m sure of it. Except moments like that, where I’m not sure of anything. “Aud…”

“You want to get closer to that noise?” I wasn’t sounding quite saintly in that moment, I’m afraid. I might have been screeching myself.

“It’s horrid, I know, but I might be able to make it better if I’m closer. And, besides. Dragon Eggshell.”

I held up a hand. “Rule nine.”

“Rule nine,” he agreed. “But can we go?”

“If there’s one chance in a hundred you can make this better… yes.”

And so we walked into the mouth of hell, the children safely ensconced in their tower. It wasn’t the first time we’d done so, he and I, but it was certainly the noisiest.

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